THE MOUNTAIN TRAIL 



camp in terms of the number of 

 trout that rise to his fly in the 

 adjacent mountain torrent. The 

 Geologist loafs along the trail, 

 oblivious to the very existence of 

 trout, breaking rocks with his 

 hammer, and, after everyone else 

 is in camp, the Botanist drifts 

 wearily in, like an overdue tramp 

 steamer through the Golden Gate, 

 with his press full of flowers. No 

 ancient lava or rainbow trout for 

 his herbarium, if you please! This 

 man in the well-tailored khaki suit 

 has been planning reservoir sites all 

 day and that other man in shabby 

 corduroys and a broad gray hat 

 has been watching the shadows in 

 the canyons, listening to the music 

 in the trees, and entering into fel- 

 lowship with the chipmunks that 

 cheerily share his lunch. 



And then, when the day's tramp 

 of from six to eighteen miles is 

 [10] 



